


Stages of Loss

by angelsandpizza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x23, Coda, Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe in Miracles?, M/M, Post-Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe In Miracles?, Spoilers, Supernatural Finale, i'm still thirsty af tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 16:10:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1716671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsandpizza/pseuds/angelsandpizza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can only hold in so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stages of Loss

**Author's Note:**

> AKA: In Which Castiel Cries. 
> 
> A _A_ KA: In Which I'm Constantly Angry At The Writers For Not Letting Their Characters Fucking Grow 
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://authorcas.tumblr.com/post/86700162767/stages-of-loss)

He sits in the chair, hands cuffed to its arms, locking him down. Locking words he had hoped he would never have to hear, _not like this_ , into his mind, refusing to let him escape.

_Well, guess what? He’s dead too._

 

They ring in his mind for God knows how long, leaving a buzzing feeling in his head, hurting, and an ache that runs deep within his bones, straight to his very core.

If he had been there, he could have stopped this. If he had found Metatron faster, he could have stopped this. If he hadn’t been so damn _foolish_ , none of this would have even happened. Running around like a lost child, looking for some way to redeem himself, prove himself. He just wanted to fix the damage that had already been done, in the hopes that maybe along the way he would somehow be able to fix what was still intact. But he no longer was the angel that walked through those barn doors all those years ago, fire and ice and rage burning underneath the skin of a vessel that could just barely contain him.

He really wasn’t. He wasn’t for a long time now.

The grace in him that was once bright and powerful and burning to fight was now gone, replaced with brokenness, still burning, but this time _he_ was burning out.

If he had told him before, it wouldn’t have been too late now.

_I love you, Dean Winchester._

The lost soul he had once given a hand to grip tight on, whispering _you are saved_ , helping find itself, was lost once again.

_If I had only told him_ , he thinks, words ringing in his ears, eyes burning. He was sure if he saw himself right now, they would be rimmed red.

He can’t do this, not now. Won’t _let_ himself do this.

He was once fire and ice and rage, and that may have changed now, the fire a little warmer, yet weaker, the ice a little less jagged, rage accompanied with love and passion and pain. He is supposed to be something greater, he cannot break.

 

***

If he thinks about it enough, it may just be the truth.

He is not dead. He is not dead. He is not dead.

Laying on the covers of an old, dusty bedroom, Dean Winchester sleeps, deep and heavy. It’s only slumber.

Humans do it all the time. It is a necessity. He once needed it.

Metatron was lying, and locked away right now, he regrets ever having uttered those words from his mouth. _He’s dead too._

He is not dead. He is not dead. He is not dead.

It’s only slumber.

He digs his nails into the skin of his forearm, deeper and deeper until it leaves marks and turns red. Deeper and deeper until the pain goes away and his arm feels numb. Deeper and deeper until the skin becomes irate and he forcibly pulls his hand away because _he is not dead._

And once again, his eyes start to burn and his throat constricts, and he feels his mouth go dry and his head starts to hurt from holding it all back, but he can’t let go, won’t let go because it’s only slumber.

He is not dead.

 

***

He kicks the wall.

Once. Twice.

It leaves a dent in the plaster, and he knows that if he hits a little harder it will give in and crumble completely.

Surely it would have hurt his foot if he were human. _If._

He isn’t though, not anymore, so it can’t hurt. He won’t let it hurt.

His mind goes black for a minute, then he feels anger once again, and he doesn’t know why. It won’t accomplish anything, he gets that, but he feels and feels and he can’t bear it, and he doesn’t know how to let it go because he aches, is barely holding, so he punches the wall, hitting it again.

Again and again and again, until his knuckles start bleeding, skin tearing apart, and every part of his body starts to chafe and he just keeps going and going, hitting and hitting until the pain on his bones doesn’t feel like pain anymore, it feels like it’s supposed to be there, always has been there and always will be there.

And he doesn’t realize it until he tastes the salty wetness on the tip of his mouth, a trail of damp tears underneath his eyelids, rolling over his nose, down his cheekbones, and he’s sniffling and sniffling and can barely hold up, so he collapses, dragging the palms of his hands with him down the wall.

His whole body shakes, vision going blurry, eyes sore, heart burning, lungs gasping for air.

He sobs until his throat starts to feel raw, until tears can’t seem to find a way to escape from his eyes, until the shaking stops and the underneaths of his eyes feel weak, but the ache in his chest that just didn’t seem to go away finally lessened, his constant migraine calming at last. His heart still hurt, but he had a feeling he would carry that around with him for however longer his stolen grace would continue supporting him.

But he let go.


End file.
